Supply and Demand 5: Subject Matter Expert
by Tari Roo
Summary: Sam's search for Dean leads him to Gibbs in desperation. Somewhat fortuitously he has an opportunity to help Gibbs and his team, and perhaps get some answers on Dean's whereabouts
1. Chapter 1

Supply and Demand 5 – Subject Matter Expert (NCIS/SPN)  
author: tari_roo  
Rating: Gen – PG13  
Disclaimer: I own nothing and profit from nothing. But if I did, SGA would still on air and Dean would have super powers.

Summary: Sam's search for Dean leads him to Gibbs in desperation. Somewhat fortuitously he has an opportunity to help Gibbs and his team, and perhaps get some answers on Dean's whereabouts.

Warnings: This is AU for SPN season three onwards and set post season five. No real spoilers for either series but you should really know them both. For NCIS, Ziva is still with the team and it is set in a non-specific timeline. AUness abounds.

Author note: As promised, the parallel story to Supply and Demand 4. Sam's story. So many of you have wanted to know and here you go.

*spn*ncis*sga*ncis*spn*ncis*

Prologue:

The twilight was heavy that evening, the smog thick and the heat of the day still lingering in the air, adding to the miasma of a warm summer night in a large metropolis. Gibbs pulled up to his house and turned off his car, the radio abruptly shutting off, newscaster cut off mid-sentence. The atmosphere of the neighbourhood seemed suppressed as well – the houses squat and sulky in the grey gloom. Or perhaps it was just his mood. Low, foul, anxious. All of the above.

Normally Gibbs didn't care if his mood affected his team, because honestly, they were adults and if they couldn't deal with their own boss, they couldn't hack the job. But today? Today he could feel the bubble. The just there distance everyone kept, even Abby. His very own titanium personal space bubble with neon 'Do not approach' signs plastered all over it. And that, in its own way pissed him off.

Grumbling, Gibbs climbed out of the car and headed towards his house, shoes squashing the semi-dry lawn, the fragile blades crunching under his shoes. The house was dark, as expected but Gibbs slowed as he approached the steps leading up the porch, something in the air giving him pause. An itch at the back of his head. Something all too familiar, setting off his prey instinct. Someone was waiting for him.

Not really in the mood to deal with this, not right now, not ever, Gibbs growled and stomped up the stairs. He was angry enough to open the door kinetically, unbalanced mood be damned, and he wanted to ruin any advantage the T&E agents thought they had. As the door flew open, and he stalked inside, Gibbs instantly spotted the shadow, the man standing in the corner near the fireplace. The door slammed behind him with a crash.

"Just one this time?" he barked, angrily.

"Agent Gibbs?"

Some of the hackles at the back of Gibbs's neck settled, but a whole new set rose in their place. Not T&E. Sam Winchester.

The tall young man was as intimidating as the last time he'd unexpectedly dropped by to pay Gibbs a call and get the low down on his brother. However, some of assured confidence and certainty was gone. Sam seemed … smaller. Less. Like he was diminished, shoulders slumped, long hair flat and a tad unkempt. He was obscured by the shadows, a distant, potential threat.

As Winchester took a hesitant step forward into the fading sunlight from the window, Gibbs revised his impression from uncertain to drug addict going through withdrawal. Sam's face was lined and drawn, his eyes sunken in and dark with bruised skin. He quickly hid his shaking hands in his pockets, but the kid looked ill, spent. Unhealthy. Gibbs sighed internally, his expression unmoved. He knew exactly what Winchester was after.

"Do you know where Dean is?"

Same question, different person, or in T&E's case - goon, same answer.

"No," Gibbs growled, his anger rising.

Just like T&E, Sam did not believe him.

Stepping forward, face earnest and open, he stammered, "Agent Gibbs, you must, you have to! With, with your connections and, and… you have to know!" Sam's voice reeked of desperation, of need and Gibbs was not inclined to give Sam any credit that that need was based on concern for his brother's welfare. Rather it was the plea of an addict looking for a fix.

 _'Just one more hit, that's all I need.'_

Gibbs _opened_ the front door firmly and barked, "Get out. Like I keep telling your friends at T &E, I don't know, and even if I did, I wouldn't tell you. Now, leave!"

Sam flinched both at the words and the kinetic push Gibbs had unconsciously directed at him with his final words. "I…."

"Don't care, don't want to know. Get out, before I make you." Gibbs didn't move an inch, his feet firmly planted in a steady stance, his voice the same tone and register he always used with people he disliked. He was unmoved. Winchester though stubbornly stood there, open pleading face at odds with the clenched fists he was no longer hiding. Long shaggy hair fell in his eyes and he glared, shaking some of the locks from off his forehead.

"Agent Gibbs,…"

"No," Jethro growled. He resisted the urge to reach for his sidearm. He didn't want to escalate the situation and was confident he could take Sam in a fight, if need be.

Sam's face reddened, eyes hard and hot, "He's my brother, I deserve…"

Petulant. Whiny. Needy.

Gibbs lost it. The kinetic _push_ was hard and fast, and knocked Winchester into the wall, narrowly missing the fireplace. It had been months since Dean had sat in this same room and asked, let, Gibbs taser him in order to first allow him to connect and finally go back to T &E. Gibbs didn't give one goddamn iota for what Sam Winchester thought he deserved. What Gibbs deserved.

The return kinetic punch that sent Gibbs flying was fast, instant and damn strong. Jethro crashed into the open door, and fell sideways into the doorway, head ringing with the force of the blow. From the ground, Gibbs _pushed_ himself to his feet and sent a staggering Sam backwards with the same kinetic effort. He followed that _push_ with another _punch_ and rapidly closed the distance to Winchester.

Despite his weakened appearance, Sam was hardly out of the fight and before Gibbs could get close enough to lay hands on him, he sent Gibbs _flying_ , actually knocked him off his feet and _tossed_ him across the room. Furious and tapping into decades of military discipline and instinct, raw strength be damned, Gibbs scrambled to his feet, deflected the next couple of _blows_ , mentally shoved Winchester into a corner and closed in fast, laying into him, with physical and mental fists.

Someone had trained the kid well.

Sam blocked the worst of the blows, took the body shots like a champ and gave as good as he got. For a while.

The reason most boxing rounds are only 3 minutes is due to the simple fact that it's hard to maintain that sort of punishment, and take it, for very long.

The series of blows the pair exchanged were hard, sharp and over quickly. Winchester was flagging, clearly not up to strength as he let more and more the Gibb's punches in. Jethro who should have just moved in and finished the fight, was in pounding mode and after a brutal jab, hook combination, connected a solid, shattering kinetic punch to Sam's temple and the kid was out.

It happened so fast, Gibbs nearly punched him even as he was falling, but pulled the punch as the guy slumped down the wall, K.O.

The exchange had taken seconds. They'd barely even had time to move beyond the immediate corner he'd shoved the guy into. No time for fancy footwork, kicks, throws. Just an all out slug fest. Strung out desperate brother vs hardened, guilt ridden Marine.

Breathing hard, Gibbs stepped back, a spike of shame crawling up his spine. He'd lost control for a second there, and more than any other aspect of his telekinesis, he hated that on occasion he lost his focus and could hurt people. As a Marine, that was unacceptable. Whaling on a young man just because he'd pushed Gibb's buttons was not right. Damnit!

Gibbs stared at the unconscious form of Sam Winchester, hair falling over his face, body boneless in repose, one long leg trapped awkwardly under a side table. Just a goddamn kid.

He sighed and lent down to check on Sam. His pulse was steady and fortunately the fight hadn't been long enough for the blows to leave more than bruises. The worst was probably the bloody nose, and the KO shot. Gibbs would have to watch for signs of concussion. Great. Maybe he should call an ambulance?

Sam groaned and struggled towards consciousness, and Gibbs gently helped him stand and guided him to the self-same couch Dean had sat on months ago. Sam held his head in his hands, arms pressed into his knees as he leant forward. The tremble in his limbs was back, if it had ever gone, and Gibbs seriously considered the ambulance again.

"No ambulance. I'll go, just…."

Perhaps Sam bordered on telepathic as he voiced Gibbs's thought, but in any event Gibbs dropped to his knees and said firmly, "What changed? Why are you so strung out now? Dean's been with T&E for years." He needed to know if this condition was kinetic related or actual drugs. Assumptions were dangerous.

Winchester didn't even bother to hide the flinch the questions evoked and he didn't look up to meet Gibbs' interrogative gaze. Never mind that Jethro wanted Sam gone, he wanted some answers first. The last thing he needed was Sam hovering around, following him. Gibbs didn't dare admit, even to himself, that his lingering guilt about Dean was bulked up now by having hit his brother.

Without looking up, Sam mumbled, "I found…. Before I had … someone. A g… girl. She's gone, we fought and I…"

Not drugs then. Kinetic crap.

Gibbs let the heaviness of his regard settle on Winchester, the steady gaze of a patient experienced interrogator. He waited, wanting Sam to talk and the silence stretched and sure enough, Sam looked up, his red eyes, and bloody nose wet. "That's not the only reason I'm looking for Dean. I'm also worried. I don't …. I don't feel him anymore."

That surprised Gibbs. He stood up and then sat on the small coffee table even as he righted it kinetically. "You were still connected all this time?" This seemed highly likely given the number of times Dean would have been 'cleared' of any kinetic connection, let alone the initial break, but nothing was outside the realm of possibility with this weird ass crap.

Sam shook his head and wiped his nose, grimacing at the smart and blood. "No, not like that." He sniffed a little, seemingly trying to gather himself, shake off the effects of the fight. He glowered at Gibbs though and said, "Even though we weren't connected, you know, able to feed off each other's abilities, I could still feel him… ah, know where he was, roughly."

Gibbs nodded slowly but said nothing and Sam continued with a sigh. "Look, we grew up in such close quarters, we spent more time trying to find our own space than spend time together, but we always knew where the other one was. Hell, even when I went to Stanford and Dean stayed behind with … with Dad, I knew where he was, sometimes how he was. We weren't always _connected_ but we were in a way, I suppose."

"And even when Dean was with T&E, you knew where he was." Gibbs voice was soft, encouraging even.

Sam did not meet his eyes, and looked away, guilt colouring his cheeks. "Yeah. I knew. It was weaker, barely there, but I knew the general area – East Coast, Chicago, New York, wherever. I could 'feel' it." Winchester wiped his nose again, hand shaking, knee bobbing up and down with nerves.

Studying Sam's turned head, his shaking hands and hunched over shoulders, Gibbs half contemplated not following through with the sucker punch question, but whether it was to answer his own curiosity or dig the knife in deeper, he asked it anyway. "Could you 'feel' what they were doing to him?" Sam stiffened, shoulders tight with emotion, shock, anger. He turned back to Gibbs, his eyes blazing.

"No." The word was growled, rippling with fury. Not shouted, not exclaimed with great protests. Just a flat, furious 'No.'

Slowly, deliberately, Sam caught Gibbs's eyes and snarled, "Do you seriously think if I knew what they were doing, had done, I would have just … let them?"

Fully owning and accepting his own stab of guilt, and pain, Gibbs tilted his head and replied, "I did."

The seconds ticked by at glacial speed, the shadows in the room deepening as evening turned into night. A car drove down the road, its headlights briefly illuminating the room and in the dip of darkness after it passed, Sam said slowly, "Dean, he… we thought T&E would easier than prison, that's why we didn't fight more when…."

"You were arrested."

Sam nodded. "He was convinced he could handle it. It was just humans, er, people afterall. Nothing he couldn't handle for seven years. I… I… he would or could have gone to prison for far longer so I didn't… I didn't argue, and then… I didn't know. No one really knows, do they?"

Gibbs shrugged, his anger dissipated, gone under the wave of guilt that haunted him constantly these days. "T&E contracted telekinetics do. I do." Sam's gaze bored into him, the earnestness, the hope so readily apparent. He leant forward a little but didn't quite dare to touch Gibbs.

His words chipped away at Jethro. "I know why you have to say you don't know where he is, I know that it's to protect him, Agent Gibbs. But if you did, maybe, help him escape and … and … get away from them, that's great. It is. I just need to know that he's ok, please?"

And there was the rub. The perfectly reasonable assumption that a 'good and decent' man like him, Agent Jethro Gibbs, would have seen the injustice of the T&E system and would, of course, have found a way to liberate Dean. Naturally he would have. Of course. This was why T&E Agents continued to dog both his and Agent Hotchner's steps, randomly appearing out of the woodwork hoping to surprise the truth out of them. The location that they had secreted Dean Winchester away to.

The truth was a far harder pill for Jethro to swallow, and one that T&E refused to believe.

Uncaring of who or what might be listening, Gibbs said slowly and clearly, regret colouring every word. "Sam, I wish to God that I had found a way, that I had tried something, anything to help Dean. But I didn't. I let them take him. I am just as much a party to the trauma and horror of that place as they are. As you are."

Sam groaned, folded down on to his lap, hands on his head, fingers tight and white in his hair.

Gibbs continued. "I don't know where he is. I hope he is safe, that he managed to escape on his own. But I don't know where he is."

Half expecting another punch or blow, Gibbs braced himself, welcomed it. More than half of the anger and guilt he was toting around these days was wrapped up in that very secret. He'd let them. He'd stayed silent, even if his intention had been to find a way. Somehow.

"Shit, shit, shit! What am I doing to do, what am I going to do!" Sam rocked on the couch, huddled over in his misery, his own guilt and need eating away at him. "Shit."

As Gibbs stared at the bundle of misery, he contemplated sharing the very long term, long shot plan he was heading up with Agent Hotchner and a few key other individuals in the federal government. If he was completely rational and honest with himself, the plan which was already underway and in progress was the only real way to give Dean and every other Empath true freedom. Not just the handful of shattered Empaths in T&E's custody but all of the others who were successfully hiding their abilities. Helping Dean would have destroyed any chance for Gibbs to be involved in the plan, let alone formulate it, but it was a cold comfort late at night when he lay awake regretting the handful of days he spent with Dean Winchester and allowing T&E to take him afterwards.

Right or wrong, long term or short term, every option weighed heavily on Jethro and in the end, he had to trust, had to hope for a permanent, legal solution. It was just a goddamn tragedy that it had taken this long to happen, and for that, Jethro fully intended on carrying the blame right up until every single T&E agent was in prison.

"Come on, you look like you could do with a good meal." Jethro was a little startled at his own words. Maybe the memories of how he had failed Winchester was prompting this compassion towards his brother.

Gibbs stood, his hand outstretched and Sam looked up, his eyes wet, face a misery. It was like reading one of DiNozzo's reports – as clear and concise as minimum word count required. Sam was angry and extremely reluctant to accept the help, but he clearly hoped that somehow Gibbs was lying, and maybe, just maybe, he'd still find some clue about Dean's whereabouts. Subtly was hardly this kid's strong point. Or DiNozzo's come to think of it.

Without accepting his hand, Sam stood, wiped his nose again and said, "I could use a shower, if you're offering."

Gibbs nodded. A shower, a meal and a place to sleep. That, at least, he could do right now.

As Sam closed the bathroom door behind him, and turned the key in the lock, his knees shook with the relief of being out of Gibbs' sight and presence. Mechanically he stripped, stepped into the shower and turned the water on. He barely reacted to the torrent of ice cold water and stoically stood under it until it warmed and rapidly grew too hot for comfort. Under the heavy spray Sam leant his forehead on the wet tile and let the water wash over him. Maybe it would drown him and this torment of endless, aching need and guilt would be gone.

The moment he closed his eyes he saw Ruby, her wicked smile and oh so tempting flesh. So Sam tried not to close his eyes, tried not to think about thick, hot blood or the mind-blowing sex or the rush of crushing a demon with his mind. Tried and failed. Tried and failed right the hell now, because he was thinking about it!

Frustrated and furious with himself, Sam punched the wall and kept on punching, protecting his hand with a kinetic cushion. Stupid, goddamn idiot. How in God's green earth was he going to find Dean when even those who might be inclined to help, who might even know where he was, thought that he didn't deserve to know, didn't need to know. Sam didn't need to be empathic to know how Gibbs felt about it, him. It was written as clear as day on his face. He'd seen that look of disappointment enough on his father's face and from one Marine to the next, they shared that careful expression designed to send the slowest recruit running.

That and a verbal lashing so profound in profanity and abuse that it could peel paint off the walls.

Sam stopped punching the wall when he heard the second tile shatter. 'Oops´

He figured he owed Gibbs for the fist fight anyway. The guy sure packed a punch. As if awoken by the memory of the fight, the newest collection of soon to be bruises protested as Sam reached for the soap and lathered away two days worth of grime and travel. Absorbed in the simple routine Sam focused on getting clean and planning his next immediate steps.

Gibbs had been his last real option. He'd already exhausted all avenues in solving Dean's disappearance himself. The BAU and Agent Hotcher had been a very dead end. The FBI was not interested in discussing Dean Winchester or his disappearance with Sam Winchester. He had scoured the scene where Dean had last been seen, but nothing. No trace, no evidence, no clue. It was like Dean had disappeared into thin air.

No demon, no spirit guide, no supernatural being had the answer either. More than a few had tried to bargain for answers, but after Sam had crushed one too many demons, no one answered his summons anymore. Only Ruby did and Sam didn't want to talk to her. The temptation that was her. Now, he was down to his last credit card, the Impala sounded like it was about to give up the ghost and Bobby wasn't taking his calls either. And now Gibbs had firmly closed this door.

No.

 _No, we don't know where he is._

 _Why are you only looking now?_

 _I don't know._

 _No._

Sam tried desperately not to think about Ruby, her blood, her smile. He clung to the memory of his brother. Dean. Stupid, smartalec grin. Ridiculous music. Cock-sure attitude. Dean could help him. Sam knew it. He knew it with every bone in his body, no matter how badly he was hurt about Sam leaving him with T&E.

Dean would help.

If he could just find him.

Sam let the tear fall, hot and guilty. Washed away from the ice cold water.

 _Where in the hell are you?_

*spn*ncis*sga*ncis*spn*ncis*

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

For once things were relatively quiet in the bull-pen, a gentle hum of people going about their work without too much fuss. Even Tony was quiet at his desk, earbuds plugged in, apparently concentrating on a report. It was Tuesday, most of their cases were either closed or so close to being closed that it barely mattered and the mountain of paperwork that accompanied said cases was being tackled without too much complaint.

Gibbs flicked his eyes around the room, tracking the various agents and office workers walking through the area. His coffee was still warm but untouched. Ducky had emailed through his final report on the Dytor autopsy and Abby had submitted her usual, thick file of findings to accompany it. Across from Tony, Ziva was peering intently at her screen, mouth pursed in concentration as her fingers flew across the key board. McGee was less focused, probably browsing the web, but his reports were filed already. The Brass weren't screaming for anything. He'd had no late night visitors for days, and hadn't seen hide nor hair of a T&E agent for weeks.

His desk phone pipped with an incoming call and a feeling of relief washed over Gibbs. Snatching it up, he answered, "Gibbs."

Three sets of eyes lifted from their work, pretend work and internet browsing to watch him and Gibbs made sure his face was carefully blank – as usual.

"Agent Gibbs, District PD have tossed a case your way. Murder in Georgetown. A Master Sergeant. Details and the address are being sent to your phone."

There was absolutely no reason why the arrival of case made the hairs at the back of his neck settle and some of the tension in his frame ebb away. Tucking those emotions away for another time, Gibbs nodded and replied, "Got it. Alert Ducky and we'll meet him there."

McGee was already standing, face bright and ready, while Tony was slouching in his chair. "Case, Boss?"

"You bet," Gibbs replied, checking his phone as the details appeared. He forwarded them to his team and said, somewhat pleasantly, "Let's go. McGee with me."

By the time he and McGee arrived at the modest apartment in Georgetown, PD had cordoned off street access and a small crowd had gathered. A few patrol officers were keeping the bystanders at bay, and it seemed, judging by the murmurs from the crowd, that it was mostly curiosity that had drawn them. McGee slammed the door of Gibb's car shut and said, "Wonder what's got the twitter press interested in this?"

Shouldering his way through the crowd, Gibbs flashed his badge at the nearest PD Officer, and slipped under the police-tape, McGee on his heels. DiNozzo and David were trying to find somewhere to park, judging by Tony's irate expression as they drove past. Detective Mocke was waiting for Gibbs at the front door of the apartment block, his expression thoughtful. He smiled at Gibbs as they approached and smirked, "Good luck with this one, Agent Gibbs."

"Something we should know, Detective?" Gibbs asked, resisting the urge to glower at the man. Mocke shrugged, trying and failing to keep his smirk contained, "I recommend you suit up, Gibbs. It's messy in there."

"Did your people enter the scene?" Gibbs asked, pulling out his notepad. Mocke shook his head. "Once we saw the nameplate and confirmed with the neighbours the partial ID, we backed off. Haven't been past the door. It's all yours."

McGee was scanning the foyer, and stood on his toes, trying to see through the heavy glass. "It's on the second floor, right? Is the elevator working?"

Mocke nodded, "Neighbourhood like this, it is." DiNozzo was making his way through the crowd, a taller head than most of the hipster crowd who were tapping away on their phones. As he arrived, Ziva trailing slightly, he gasped, "Who called the fashion police? Is this an imminent flash-mob or something?" He traded a brief nod of recognition with Mocke, before shrugging his back pack into a more comfortable spot on his shoulder.

The detective shot the crowd a dismissive look, and snorted, "More like gore-hounds sniffing out the bizarre. Someone tipped them off, no doubt. Some mouthy rookie."

"Great," Tony sighed, and then smiled as a young lady snapped his picture.

"Come on." Gibbs tipped a finger to his hat at Mocke and entered the building, heading for the stairs. Tony shot the elevator a longing look, but followed McGee and Ziva up the stairs. Apartment 2E was cordoned off, police tape across the open door, and Gibbs paused outside in the hall. Leaning forward, he peered into the apartment, his team hovering impatiently behind him.

There was blood everywhere.

Literally. There was no figurative metaphor at work here.

Most murder scenes were messy. The human body contains far more blood than one would expect and even the least violent killing could produce more blood splatter and spray than even the most ardent CSI fan could imagine. Apartment 2E looked like the set of an over-the-top Hollywood horror. If it not for the smell, Gibbs might have suspected a prank or set-up. It was difficult, not impossible just difficult, to fake a crime scene using pigs blood or something, but the rank smell of dried, visceral human blood was unmistakable. The living room was dripping in blood, the walls liberally coated in streaks and spray.

"He wasn't kidding," McGee sighed, mouth open, aghast at the sheer volume of blood. Edging closer, watching his feet, Gibbs continued to study what he could see of the room and the body. The top half of the Master Sergeant's body was visible, his face turned towards the door, like he was watching whoever was coming in. Face slack in death, eyes open, the corpse bore no visible marks of a violent death, but the hue of the skin spoke of the blood loss. Under the blood, the room was neat and orderly, very little clutter on the table and various shelves. A smooth, well-used couch sat squarely in the middle of the room, facing an unseen TV. The couch was equally covered in blood, its brown tinted red. Gibbs flicked his gaze upwards and yep, the ceiling was decorated in blood splatter.

Behind him, standing on his toes, DiNozzo was scanning the room over his shoulder and Gibbs didn't need to see the grimace to hear it as Tony said, "Whoever did this must have bathed in blood. Surely someone saw a blood-drenched maniac fleeing the scene?"

Noting the time, well aware Ducky was on his way, Jethro turned to his team. "DiNozzo, McGee, suit up and start photographing everything. Mark the voids clearly and keep your movement to a minimum. Ziva, head downstairs and start getting the details of the neighbours and possible witnesses. When Duck arrives, tell him to take his time."

"On it, Boss," Ziva replied, nodding as she turned to leave. Tony caught her hand and asked, "Hey, could you bring up that second unit for me. I have a feeling we are going to run out of swabs."

McGee was already covering his shoes with plastic covers and stepping into his blue CSI coverall. Gibbs tucked his note pad away and said, "Document the entrance thoroughly, as it's probably the exit too." Pulling the blue plastic over his shoulder, McGee nodded, "Will do. I'll scan the room as well so that Abby can use our pictures to extrapolate position based on splatter."

Tony was struggling with his coverall, the material too baggy and lose, and he was tangling one of the sleeves. "Damnit! Stupid, frigging, suit!" Gibbs, his own coverall bunched at his waist, legs covered, reached out and helped Tony. "Thanks, Boss. I keep meaning to order a small size, but…"

"Uh huh," Gibbs huffed, and pulled the sleeve in place, straightening the material, which hung around Tony like a tent. Pulling a roll of duct tape out of his crime-scene kit, Gibbs tossed it at him. "Tape up the lose bits, otherwise you might compromise the scene."

"Can't I just get a smaller one? Head back to the…" DiNozzo trailed off, a smile breaking out on his face. "No, kay, got it, Boss. Taping up." Gibbs didn't bother to reply, snapping on a pair of latex gloves. McGee was snapping away at the entrance, his digital camera flashing like it was a lightning storm. Tony was managing with taping his legs, but in order to save time, Gibbs helped with his arms, and torso, making sure the coverall lay snug over his frame. "Thanks Boss."

"Let's go."

*spn*ncis*sga*ncis*spn*ncis*

The T&E offices in Washington D.C. were not particularly impressive from the outside. Years ago, the fledging agency had been allocated an old federal building, which in the late 70s had been past its prime and in need of renovation. Rather than upgrade or update it, the T&E had slapped on a couple coats of paint, fitted new windows and improved the security at the entrance. Aside from those cosmetic touches, the building retained an air of dilapidation and neglect. None of the people passing on the street gave it a second glance, all too busy with their phones, busy days and the bright sunshine.

Sam glared up at the building. Unless you knew the address, there was no actual signage announcing its purpose or affiliation. Perhaps, Sam thought sourly, that was exactly the point. Blend in. Don't look too important or ostentatious. It was like the T&E were gently whispering, "Nothing to see here. Just ignore us." Over the past five or so years, reports and news-stories on telepaths and telekinetics had decreased until they became rare and side-lined. The occasional puff piece about some daring telekinetic-paramedic or fireman saving someone was usually the sole mention of a T&E related matter. Even rarer were the stories that mentioned an empath stopping a terrorist threat. The empaths who worked at airports and national security buildings were mentioned alongside the long list of counter-measure and security features the government trotted out to reassure the public after major incidents. _All is well, we are on top of things. See, we even have a freak scanning people for violent emotions._

For an agency that should be so high profile, so pivotal to national security, T&E kept its head down and just went about its business. Nothing to see here. Just doing our jobs.

In his 29 years, Sam had only stepped inside a T&E building once. Early on, during his stay at Stanford, he'd dropped in to register as a telekinetic, when he still thought it was possible to have a normal life. Back then, a normal life meant obeying the laws his father had spent years railing against, like registering. The lady at the registration desk had been polite, full of smiles and at the time, Sam had thought the T&E were an annoying, yet necessary bureaucracy – hardly evil. Not everyone who had powers would use them wisely and knowing that a government agency was watching should be enough to keep young, hot-head telekinetics in check.

During the early 80s, most major metropolitan police departments in the bigger cities had instituted special T&E units, whose sole task was to handle telekinetic and empathic crime. Only New York and Washington PD still had units, nearly 30 years later. T&E's iron grip on Empaths meant most Telekinetics relied on them solely for access to the stability and power empaths provided. The average, rogue telekinetic barely had enough power to warrant a dedicated police force. Without an empath, most Kinetics struggled to open a door with their minds. Ordinary police officers could handle the run-of-the-mill telekinetic.

Empaths on the other hand were, well, deemed a far greater threat. It was standard SOP at all police departments, sheriff offices and law enforcement agencies to alert the nearest T&E team the moment an empath was implicated in a crime. Again, however, over the past decade, the number of calls on empathic crimes had dropped – to almost non-existent. The occasional call these days was a false alarm. Dean's arrest, on a non-empath related charge, had been the sole blip on a national streak. Sam knew this, because he'd spent the last month or so researching how T&E handled rogue empaths. The answer was short: Not at all. Whatever had happened to Dean, it hadn't happened to anyone else recently.

What Sam's research had revealed was another, far more disturbing trend. T&E seemed to be running out of empaths. Perhaps the reason for the media blackout or slow down on Empath stories was a deliberate screen to reduce public awareness and dependence. Paired telekinetic and empath pairs were not deemed to be a threat, especially if that pair was employed in emergency services and by a government agency. There was plenty of supervision and oversight, right? Late one night, in a motel outside of Chicago, Sam had put the random pieces of information he'd been gathering together and had come to a startling conclusion. There were fewer empaths at airports. In fact, O'Hare International, one of, if not the busiest airport in the States had one dedicated empath/telekinetic pair. California was rotating it's sole empath between its aiports like a random security check. The UN was demanding an additional four pairs of empaths/telekinetics and T&E was failing to deliver. The number of telekinetics required to use a pool Empath was increasing. Sam had spoken to a distraught fireman in Chicago who had claimed that his partner had been summoned to the local T&E office, and had not returned. Three months later, he and his partner's family were still getting the run around from the agency, who claimed that the empath, Fred, was ill and was being provided with the necessary care. Fred was a class 8 Empath. Hardly a threat to anyone.

Sam had spent so long in Chicago, trying to find information on Dean, that he'd had time to build a John Winchester-style wall of mystery. After hours of staring at the random articles which had been buried in the maelstrom of the news-cycle, the various interviews from telekinetics who had 'lost' their partners to T&E, and the one liner he'd found stating that T&E were considering re-invigorating their school-awareness programme after it had been scrapped ten years ago, a cold, sick feeling had settled at the base of his heart.

It wasn't just Dean.

Clenching his fist, willing himself to remain calm, Sam bottled up his brimming anger and stepped through the doors of the building that had been Dean's home for two years.

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For all of his years as a LEO, Tony considered himself a fairly decent expert on blood splatter and spray. While he was more than happy to leave the minutiae and detailed analysis to real experts like Abbey, generally he felt confident in 'reading' a crime scene, as it were. Confident enough to say where the perp had stood, the motion of the blows, the angle and direction of an altercation. Usually Abbey confirmed his gut feel, refined it rather than corrected it. It was difficult for blood splatter patterns to be so vastly different and unusual that one couldn't develop a feel for a scene after some careful study. Gibbs especially had the knack for picking up a feel for a scene and ole McGeek was on his way too. Ziva was just uncanny in general when it came to her instincts.

Feet firmly rooted in one spot, his baggy-covered shoes etched with blood from the floor, Tony rotated his body from side to side, feet unmoving, studying the room. For the hundredth time. It made no sense at all. Based on how Master Sergeant Harrison had fallen, Tony was standing where the perp had stood. The rather prolific blood spray however was telling him otherwise. Harrison appeared to have been struck once. A large round mark was purpling his forehead post-mortem and for all intents and purposes, he had collapsed in an untidy sprawl from that single blow and hadn't moved. Apparently.

The thorough, pervasive pattern of spray on the walls though was saying something else completely. Tony was standing on the spot the perp may have stood to strike Harrison, but judging by the splatter, the perp had moved around the room, slashing at Harrison from multiple angles, multiple times. The spray was layered, like a rotating garden hose that returned a similar, but not the same spread of liquid each time. Based on the evidence on the hardwood floor, Harrison hadn't moved at all. There were no swears, or smudges, of a person trying to escape an attacker. It was like he had stood frozen in place, upright and motionless while an assailant hacked at him.

Hacked at him and left no visible marks of that attack.

Tony turned his attention to the remains of Harrison again, and frowned. Ducky might discover wounds underneath his clothes, but the idea that the perp had killed him in such an odd manner, and then changed his clothes to hide the wounds –all without smearing the blood, was incredible. Unbelievable. McGee was glaring at the floor, his expression such a studious one that normally Tony would be teasing him about it. As bemused as McGeek, Tony coughed, breaking the silence in the room and said, "You sure there were no foot prints in the room, McGee?"

"Yes, Tony. Yes, I am sure. Do you want to see the pictures – again. No foot prints. Nothing! Hell, if the perp used fake blood to cover his path afterwards, surely there would be blood on the Master Sergeant! But there isn't!" McGee stood, grimacing at the ache in his knees from crouching for so long. "This doesn't make any sense!"

"Where'd Gibbs get to?" Tony asked, twisting around, his feet still, clutching his camera.

"He's in Harrison's bedroom, going through some papers and files he found," McGee replied, gaze still fixed on the confusing blood evidence. "Maybe we should start swabbing so that Abbey can test if this is actually blood, or even Harrisons?"

Rubbing his chin, latex covered fingers scrapping over his skin, Tony shrugged, "Probably should. Based on sheer volume, this can't be all his."

"Even the back of the couch is covered!" McGee gasped, leaning forward from his own fixed point to study the couch. "That's not possible, unless the whole scene has been faked to cover up something else."

"Ahem." Ducky's soft cough drew both of their attention to the doorway where he stood, with Jimmy pushing the gurney. "May we enter?" Ducky was eyeing the body already. From his vantage point and angle, he wasn't able to get a clear view of the whole grisly scene. Behind him, Palmer was open-mouthed as he took in the crime scene, glasses nearly falling off his nose.

"Give us a few minutes, Ducky." Gibbs' voice was rough, like he was biting back anger or something – so hardly unusual for him. He was standing the door of the bedroom, face unreadable. Ducky didn't move, his glasses catching the light as he nodded. "Not a problem, Jethro but I wonder if it wouldn't be worth your while to bring Abbey here, rather than bring her the scene, as it were."

Tony pivoted on his heels, careful of where his feet moved and added, "Probably a good idea, Boss. It feels like the evidence has been buried in … well, evidence! If there are fingerprints and trace details of the perp here, it's probably covered by blood, and even just trying to take swabs might compromise something." McGee was nodding, a rustle of plastic overall accompanying him.

A sigh escaped their Boss, and Gibbs flicked an unhappy glance at the narrow path he and McGee had made across the living room. Tony continued, "This isn't a needle in a hay-stack, Boss. It's a needle in a pile of pins, or something."

"Contradictory pins too, Boss. The splatter tells a story of a moving, violent attack from multiple angles, but there is just no way that that is possible, based on the rest of the splatter and position of the body," McGee added, pointing at the arcs and splays of blood and the very clean corpse.

From the hallway, Palmer shouted, voice too loud, "Based on my limited view, I'd estimate more than one attacker!" Ducky hushed Jimmy and said to Gibbs, "You need to keep the scene intact for as long as possible, Jethro and you also need me to examine the body as soon as possible to provide more answers. I think the quickest solution is to get Abbey down here and clear the path to the body. Mr Palmer and I can then extract it."

Gibbs stared at the door. Ducky was right, of course, but waiting for Abbey would delay the autopsy even more and he really wanted confirmation of cause of death. The mark on the forehead did not seem sufficient to incapacitate, let alone kill. But in the absence of other, visible injuries, they had far more questions and no answers. Hoping that he wasn't making a mistake, Gibbs grumbled, "We've already compromised the scene. Get in here and check out the body."

Clearly disagreeing, but willing, Ducky shrugged and turned to Jimmy, "Alright then, Mr Palmer, lets be as careful as possible and get out quickly."

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The contrast between the shabby exterior of the T&E building and its interior was staggering. If T&E were saying to the world at large, 'we're small, useful and too busy to spruce up' then it was screaming 'we're pretty damn good at what we do and have made a killing doing it' to whoever bothered to walk in. Understated opulence is a tough décor to pull off, mostly because it's all too easy to take ostentation too far. There was no gold, or glitz in the lobby, nothing that looked like it could be found in the home of a rich somebody with more money than sense. Rather, the opulence shone in the stone used in the floor, the wood chosen for the front desk, the quality of the material covering chairs, arty, uncomfortable poofs that were either for your ass or your feet. It was in the art hanging on the walls, in the massive, high-definition screens, the touchpad information spots, the crispness of the air-conditioning and the smell of expensive coffee and pastries. Wealth and power oozed from every single piece of furniture and fitting. Rare plants and flowers in greenhouse boxes. A subtle water feature adding comforting white noise. Slick, cutting edge security technology and a deep sense of unrivalled, unchallenged authority.

Sam felt sick.

And massively, horrendously out of place.

"Can I help you, sir?"

Startled, but trying not to show it too much, Sam turned to see a smartly dressed young lady, in a tasteful business suit, with carefully coifed hair. Her smile was broad, genuine and welcoming. She was holding a fancy looking tablet, a rotating T&E logo as the screensaver.

"Uhm?" Sam stammered, forgetting for a moment what name he was using.

"Is this your first time at T&E, sir?" Her smile was kind, no doubt intended to put him at ease and make him relax. Sam stiffened as she moved closer. "Have you been formally assessed, sir?"

Sam blinked and answered automatically, "Yes, in college. That's not why…" The aide smoothly interrupted him "If you are looking for contract work, sir, I have a list here of available roles with immediate start dates, dependent on your class."

Her smile was bright, helpful and broad. Sam shook his head, trying to calm his racing heart. "Er, no. I have a job, thanks. A, a new one. I'm a class 6 and my new Boss wanted to know what it could cost for access to a Pool Path – occasionally."

The aide's smile didn't move and she quickly keyed her tablet, fingers swift and steady. "We offer a wide range of packages on our Pool Paths, and price is linked to the level of 'Path and duration. I'll send you the details, Mr...?"

"Oh, ah, Paul Jones," Sam stammered.

"Mr Jones. Do you have your T&E Registration card?"

Sam handed her the laminate card, his much younger face beaming back at them. Not long after Dean's 18th birthday, their Dad had secured several sets of fake T&E registrations for both of them. Paul Jones had died at age 3 months from complications with his heart, but John Winchester had crafted a nearly impeccable ID for Sam using Paul's DOB. Sam had one other Kinetic ID that withstood scrutiny, and Dean had had three. If Agent _Henderson_ hadn't been the one to catch them in Colorado, Dean might have escaped T &E with his 'fake' Class 10 ID. But Henderson had known exactly who they were and Sam's saving grace had been his 'real' registration from his time at Stanford.

"Here you go, Paul. I've emailed the product range brochure to you."

"Thanks," Sam said stiffly, taking his card. "Ah, any chance I could sign up for a permanent pairing?"

The aide's smile did not falter. "Of course, sir. I'll add you to the waiting list. We'll contact you if an Empath becomes available. I've emailed you the placement fee schedule as well."

"The waiting list?" Sam queried, faking a light tone. The aide looked up from her tablet, a serious look on her perfect face. "I'm afraid so, Mr Jones. There are no available, unattached Empaths nationwide. There have always been more Kinetics than Empaths unfortunately."

"Oh?" Sam asked, hoping she would expand. She didn't, her smile back in place. Sam continued, "Do the Pool Path packages include temporary pairings? My boss…"

She smoothly interrupted him with a gentle touch on his hand, her smile dim. "I'm afraid that due to the need to improve security protocols, Empaths are no longer offered for temporary pairings. This is to safeguard both the Empath and the Kinetic."

"Why, what happened?" Sam asked, a surge of anger creeping through him.

"Oh, nothing happened, Mr Jones," the aide laughed, touching his hand again. "A careful review of the measures in place to safeguard Empaths indicated that it was too dangerous to allow them to leave T&E supervision. A preventative measure, more than reactive. We don't want another Galveston afterall."

Sam did not return her smile or her laugh. "So they are prisoners here, then?"

"Oh, no, no, Mr Jones. Hardly prisoners. Definitely not," the aide laughed and she touched her hair briefly, smoothing away nothing. "Most Empaths prefer to remain in the rather luxurious accommodation T&E provides. It can be quite… overwhelming for them in public. All those people and emotions bombarding them. No, our Empaths prefer the peace and quiet of T&E Facilities."

Sam resisted the urge grab her tablet and smash it over her head. His own head was pounding, and a little, nasty voice than sounded a lot like their father was hissing at him. _You left your brother here. For two years!_ "What about their families? Visitors? Surely you don't keep them isolated?"

For the third time, the aide touched his hand, as if she was reassuring him. "Sir, Mr Jones. What you are feeling is quite natural. Most Kinetics feel very protective towards Empaths, without even knowing them. It comes from the need to connect, and is rather endearing, in my opinion." Sam glared at her.

Undeterred, she continued to smile, "Of course their families visit them, and we even arrange for outings to parks and other quiet venues, away from the public. They may live a sheltered life, Mr Jones, but it is one of privilege and luxury. The best food, the finest accommodation. They exercise regularly and have hardly a care in the world. During the day they help Kinetics reach their potential and their evenings are their own to socialise and relax. They even see the premiers of movies before anyone else. You don't need to worry about them."

Sam felt the edges of his ID cutting into his palm. "Could… could I see them? See for myself?"

The by now sickening smile returned. "I'm afraid not, Mr Jones. That is something all Kinetics want to do, again that natural, perfectly normal attraction to an Empath. However, it's not good for Kinetics to be exposed to unbonded, open Empaths. It can be quite – distressing for both parties. Connections, even Pool Boosts need to occur in carefully controlled rooms, were both parties are properly prepped and can be guided through the process."

Trying to relax, and remember why he was there, Sam swallowed. The urge to knock this woman flying and to race through security and just go free all the Empaths was roaring through him. Grimacing more than smiling, Sam bit out one last question, "Is it true that there are fewer and fewer Empaths being born each year?"

Now the aide looked fake-upset. "I fear so, Mr Jones. The number of new Empaths decreases every year."

"Thank you, ma'am." The aide nodded, and walked off, leaving Sam to stare at the staggering opulence steeped in lies and falsehood. Coming here had been a bad idea. He'd wanted to rip the place apart before but now? Now a rage boiled within him and Sam wanted to burn this place to the ground and salt the earth. A small part of him had hoped that if he looked into the face of a T&E employee that he'd see some compassion, some vestige of humanity. The lobby wasn't busy, but he wasn't the only Kinetic. Several had arrived while he had spoken to the aide, and they all had the look of someone going through withdrawal. Sam knew that feeling all too well. Security was heavy, with multiple access levels and checks. Cameras covered every corner. Armed guards were visible, discretely manning several stations.

Sam left before he started to look suspicious and as he passed through the thick doors and stepped into bright sunlight, his heart was pounding. What next? What else could he do?

"Hey, handsome. Figured you'd show up here eventually."

Ruby was leaning against a lamp-post across from him, her blonde hair shiny in the sun.

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End file.
